


Antipathy

by anonymousgratification



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Panic, Past Sexual Assault, Touch Repulsion, platonic intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 08:58:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18601276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousgratification/pseuds/anonymousgratification
Summary: At a Wayne event, Damian finds himself more uncomfortable than usual.





	Antipathy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on another fic as of current, and it's full of angst & pain, and so I needed something sweet to balance myself out. Not really my forte, but I got this idea stuck in my head.  
> I'm someone who is moderately repulsed by touch, and I imagine Damian being a bit like me, where it's more about trust than anything [once he trusts someone, he would be comfortable with it.]  
> There is reference to Dick being raped, for I feel it's so, irritatingly, glossed over.  
> 

A party. A party to mingle with socialites and associates of Wayne enterprises. Damian has been to more than a few over his time in Gotham. Everyone is either maudlin or has an intense lack of boundaries. Their words make him nauseous. They’re like compliments but condescending when further dissected. The questions make him even more nauseated; personal and confidential. They attempt to delve in the private lives of both him and the rest of them. 

They speak about his father, _Bruce Wayne_ , in such a way he has to bite his tongue, stopping the slew of insults in his mouth. Damian respects the real Bruce Wayne, the one who taught him a new way of living. The Bruce Wayne who fights crime, and saves the city from the shadows, and helps those who need it, even when Damian sometimes disagrees with his sentiments. That Bruce Wayne is the one worthy of respect, not the cheapened, false version painted by the public. 

Dick finds him a while after the evening begins, asking him how he is. Damian responds casually, and normally, though when Dick fades away somewhere else in the room, he begins to wish he made an excuse to stay beside him.

When he first arrived in Gotham, he fancied the attention he received, as he had a dearth of it, but there was always a shred of lingering disgust, at what he believed, then, were heathens unworthy of laying a hand on him.

Now he’s a bit older, and his arrogance has lessened, but his repulsion has only increased in potency. He hates the touch the most. Each time he attends one of these events, his training and will are the only things stopping his body from flinching when fingers reach for him, or someone he barely knows attempts to seize him in an embrace or something equally unsettling. The touch is threatening. The inherent urge still exists inside him, to attack at the sight and sensation of hands. He can’t help himself from thinking of ulterior motives and ensuing harm. He wants to flinch away, and wants to break their hands or wrists or arms; anything attached to the person he comes in contact with. Out of respect to his father, and the name bound to him by blood, he doesn’t. 

In the League, this would have been considered a challenge, or a mission; a basis for gathering information or seducing a target and poisoning their drink as they lose their inhibition throughout the evening. Sometimes, in the midst of feeling uncomfortable, he does pretend that’s what this is, and it helps him keep his head in tact; either promising when he finishes he’ll be rewarded or condemned.

Though, if this was the League, the touching would not be an aspect he would have to abide by. He was considered too valuable for anyones hands but his mother's and grandfather's. If his belongings were touched, or he received a nudge to his person when someone walked too close, their penance would be a severed hand, or worse, a head. 

Envisioning makes him miss it. It appears ideal, though he despises himself for indulging in such a concept. But, whatever helps him remain pacified, he does, for the other option is chagrining himself and his family, which he strangely and gravely wants to keep.

The hours pass in a blur of hands. There are hands everywhere and he doesn’t want them. On his face. Pinching his cheeks. Grabbing his shoulder. Around his arm. 

Like a wire fracturing, he’s forced out of the fog of the evening, and dread surges through him. He’s been in this room thousands of times over the past years, but now it looks distorted. It has shrunken and brightened, and those two, simultaneously, are causing him to suffocate. He looks around and cannot find anyone he recognizes. His eyes rapidly move around the room, searching for Dick, or his father, or even, desperately, Tim. 

All he is met with is faces contorted wrong, and eyes glued on him he doesn’t want there. 

The murmur of voices is replaced by a deafening ringing in his ears. Notions to either flee or fight take over, and he wants to do both but knows he’s allowed neither. Black spots flicker in his line of sight and he shuts them. It doesn’t help, and as they open again, he becomes dizzy.

Unease increasing, he permits himself to take a step away from the space the majority of the guests are in. 

Another hand grabs him, and Damian can’t help himself from wincing. In the time between his reaction and spinning around to see who it is, he regrets his behavior, and the sensation of failure wafts over his head.

“Just me,” Damian hears, muffled like it’s far away. His eyes move up to the person, and the familiar face makes him feel better yet worse.

“Damian? You’re pale,” Tim says, squinting at him. 

Damian slaps the hand away, taking another step back. “You’re pale,” he bites, turning away. The same hand slides around his shoulder, and Tim walks with him in his grip. 

“Don’t…” he says, but it’s so quiet it doesn’t come out at all. 

“Follow me.” Tim leads him outside to the elongated archway at the entrance of the Manor. Once they’re alone, Tim lets go of him and steps away. 

“Overstimulated?” he asks.

Damian denies his assumption. “No."

“You looked like you were going to pass out.” Tim slides a hand back through his hair. "Thought you could use some air."

“I didn’t need your help.” He furrows his eyebrows at him. “I’m fine,” he says, the urge to be sick is still planted in his cheeks. He focuses on breathing. The air outside is not constricting like it is in, and the comparison is felt when he inhales and it’s refreshing instead of stuffy.

“Well, you got it. I know these things can be crazy. Everyone is so touchy. In more ways than one.”

Damian doesn’t say anything. Tim lifts a hand to grab him again, but by either the look on his face or his own assumption, he lowers it. 

“Do you dislike it?” Damian asks, wanting to fill the area around them with something. 

“Not exactly. But, I do find it rather unwarranted.” His eyes flicker over Damian’s body, his fists clenched by his side. His gaze stills on his face. Dark skin has returned to a normal shade, and flashes of worry disappear from inside him. “Do you?” he asks. 

Damian eyes widen, then he squints. “They fawn over me like I’m an animal,” he responds. “I, too, find it rather... unwarranted.”

Tim snickers. "Yeah."  


A voice Damian doesn’t recognize interjects, and he turns his head to two men walking up the house. They address both of them, and Tim greets the two of them, but Damian can’t do much except nod at the denomination. One of the men obliges Tim into conversation as he enters the house, and Tim gestures at him— _one second,_ as he slants toward Damian.  “You good?”

Lying, Damian shakes his head, and Tim goes back inside with the guest. His breathing becomes difficult again when he thinks about returning to the party, discerning the imminence. His eyes move over the driveway, glimpsing vapidly at the succession of sumptuous vehicles. 

As his gaze shifts around outside, his throat becomes both dry and overly damp, and Damian swears he’s going to throw up. On instinct, his body moves back inside, and he doesn’t look at anyone or anything, concentrating on getting upstairs and to his room. 

Dick, out of the corner of his eye, sees Damian's frantic way of moving, watching as he hurries up the stairs and away from the party. He excuses himself from his confabulating and meets Tim’s eyes across the room, also glancing over at the staircase. Tim gives him an expression of apprehension, and a short time later, Dick follows Damian up the stairs. 

Panting, Damian shuts the door of his bedroom, though he is certain he was not moving fast enough to be out of breath. His fingers begin to shake and he rushes to his private bathroom, slamming the door and resting back against it. He stares ahead to himself in the mirror. His own reflection makes his head spin. The ghost of hands dig at his skin. He wants to rip it off, either his clothes or something deeper.

His breathing keeps coming quicker and quicker. He inhales and exhales deeply in an attempt to stop it, but it makes it worse. He begins to heave and rushes to the toilet. Nothing comes out but precipitated oxygen. 

Deciding he’s panicking for no reason, he stands, pushing himself up with trembling hands. He opens the door, repeatedly clenching and slackening his fists in the space between his room and bathroom, endeavoring to get a handle on his respiration, unwilling to obey his commands. 

He’s overreacting. Nothing happened. Nothing is wrong. He’s been to these events before. He’s just freaking out with no purpose, like a toddler throwing a tantrum. He’s not a toddler and he’s not going to allow himself to become hysteric over _nothing_.

He doesn’t hear the door open or shut, but Dick is, at once, in front of him, grabbing at him. Intrinsically, he averts the touch. Dick is going to see his contemptible display and hate him. He’ll be disappointed and appalled. Part of him knows Dick never would, but that part has gone missing, and the one taking over is maligning every contortion of his face and body.

Dick had been speaking before, but Damian only hears him when he says something that propels him away from his inner dissension. 

“Why are you crying?” 

Damian lifts a hand to his face for verification of his question, and to his dismay, it's wet. He takes another step back, veering away from him. “I’m not.”

Dick walks toward him, stopping when they are within touching distance. The evidence of his tears is obvious now, in their closeness. “You’re crying.”

He doesn’t respond, and Dick moves closer, to which Damian turns completely away from him. He clenches his jaw and wills himself to calm down. 

Dick still lands in front of him, and places a hand on his cheek. “Damian, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, way too aggressive. He slinks away to leave. The party seems less insufferable; the alternative staying trapped in his room with Dick, on the verge of panic. 

Dick’s hand is on his shoulder and he spins him around, creating a second pervasion of dizziness. “Damian,” he says. 

“I’m fine,” he growls. Dick stares at him, and he takes it as pity. As sympathy. Irritation consumes him. He jolts away from him. “Stop touching me.”

“Touching…?” Dick whispers, staring at his arm, still in its original position. He lowers it. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

“There isn’t anything going on.” 

Dick’s gaze flickers over Damian’s body, espying his trepidation. Eyes wild and wide, tinted red. Body shifting rapidly as he struggles for air. It’s very clear what’s happening. Dick doesn’t allow him to feign. 

“You’re scared,” he says, neither a question or a statement. 

“Scared?” He scoffs. His masquerade is proven in the instance Dick grabs him and he goes pliant.

Dick maneuvers him toward the bed and sits him on it, leaning down ahead of him. “What’s going on?”

The words Damian efforts to say struggle against him, and he cannot speak. Washing over him, as he parts his lips, is his confined feelings. A hitch of breath comes out instead of words, and he can feel the pressure in his eyes this time, as he cries at his own helplessness. 

The barrier of Dick between him and the party coerces a secureness from inside of him.  His composure falters, and he hates himself. He hates himself as he wails like an infant in front of Dick. He hates himself as he leans forward and clutches, shoving his head into his chest and twisting his fingers in his suit.

Dick’s arms wrap around him, embracing him. It makes Damian cry harder. “What’s wrong, baby?”

His ears warm at the term of endearment. He’s not a baby but also wants to be, if being a baby gets him this confusing comfort he both likes and loathes. 

He tries to speak. His throat hurts and he swallows. “They kept touching me.”

“Who did?” he asks, leaning away a little.

“Everyone…” he mutters. “I don’t like it.” Damian thinks he sounds like a pathetic child. He’s too distraught to stop himself. Dick makes him feel like he’s… given permission to be. 

Dick removes himself from their hug and sits beside him. Damian lifts his sleeve to his nose, rubbing. 

“Is that why you’re so upset?” Damian has a hard time finding something to say and doesn’t. Dick sits back on the bed, patting his leg. “Come on,” he says. 

“I’m not a baby,” Damian asserts, yet he doesn’t feel an aversion to the offer. 

“I’m not saying you are.” At the answer, and after a second of doubt, Damian stands up and crawls onto his lap. It's what he used to do. Dick would pull him onto his lap and hold him until he calmed down enough to tell him what was wrong. Apparently, it is still effective, because he’s speaking again.

“I left because… because…” Damian nudges Dick’s neck, hiding himself there. “I thought I was going to be sick.”

Dick begins to stroke his back lightly with the tips of his fingers. “Because you didn’t like being touched?”

Damian shakes his head in the space of his throat. He sniffles and nuzzles the skin. The faint scent of his cologne and another smell specific to him he inspires, and it assists in soothing him. 

“I… feel dirty,” he mumbles. Dirty is putting it lightly. Every nerve of his body feels repulsed. His flesh is burning with disgust. An impulse pokes at him, one to skin himself so the feeling will go away. To rip off his flesh, over and over until he’s only bone, until the sensation dies. “It’s…” His eyes overflow with liquid, and he squeezes his arms around Dick. “It won’t stop.”

“I’m sorry…” Dick says slowly. It makes sense. Damian didn’t stop dodging his touch until a few months after they began working together. His hand goes motionless on his back. 

Damian finds himself hating the flatness of his palm, and he shoots up, removing himself from over Dick, standing and shying away from him. His teeth grind together. He forces out words between a tightened jaw. “If we keep touching… I’m going to throw up.”

“That’s ok.” Dick puffs out his cheeks, thinking, and stands up, making sure to avoid him. “I’ll be right back, yeah? Don’t go anywhere.”

Damian obeys, inanimate as he listens to Dick move around the room. He enters the bathroom. A moment later Damian hears the faucet, and after a couple minutes, Dick comes back out. 

Damian’s in the same spot he left him in. “Bathroom,” Dick says, instead of leading him. Damian follows him in, and Dick leans himself against the wall. 

Damian looks around the room and raises an eyebrow. Pink faced from discountenance, the gesticulation doesn’t do much. “A bath?” he asks, at the tub.

“Trust me,” Dick says, aquatinted with the feeling he described. There was a time in his life when he would sit for hours in the tub, unable to ensure if his skin was his or not. It felt foreign but sickly, and took months to feel like his again, and erase the trace he felt, of a woman’s hands, seared into his skin as if tattooed on it. Sometimes, the sensation returns, and he understands how Damian feels, nauseous at the very thought of touching someone ever again.

Damian steps in the room further. “The—”

Dick cuts him off. “No. You are not going back down there.”

“I…”

“Clean off. It will help.” He shifts and grabs the door handle, smiling. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Damian doesn’t react at all, so Dick waits. “You can… stay,” he says quietly. Because it is Damian, the statement is more of request, and Dick assents, shutting the door.

Damian turns to him, his fingers around the knot of his tie. “Can you…” he drifts off, embarrassed, and Dick derives the indication. He wraps his fingers around it, and Damian removes his. Dick loosens the tie and slides it off him, placing it on the counter. Moving away from him, he shuts the toilet seat and sits over it. 

Damian removes his suit jacket and sets it above his tie. He bends over and takes off his shoes, then begins unbuttoning his shirt. He lowers it down over his arms and adds it to the rest. 

He reaches for his belt and his hands shake around it as he lays it over the pile. His fingers move around the button of his slacks and he slowly removes them, following his prior ritual. 

In only his undergarments, he grows wary. His eyes go to Dick's, that aren’t exactly looking at him or anything else. 

“Don’t look,” Damian whispers. 

Dick glides around the toilet until he’s sitting backwards atop it. He places his elbow on the rear, resting his head in his hand. “Not looking.” 

Damian leans down to remove his socks, tossing them on the tile with his shoes. His fingers proceed under his waistband, and he stares at the back of Dick’s head as he suppresses his swelling abash. 

The water sloshes as he subsides. He submerges his head and runs his hands back through the strands. Reaching up for the shelf, he frantically pours a generous amount of soap over his hands and scours his body, laving every inch of skin. 

Taking a deep breath, he progressively obtains control of his soma. The warm mist relaxes him. His skin starts to feel less vile and his nausea begins to fade. 

“You can turn back around,” he says, bringing his knees to his chest to cover himself. 

Dick stands. Instead of sitting back where he was, he relocates, sitting on the opposite side of the tub. “Feel any better?”

“It’s adequate,” he mutters.

Dick smiles at his snideness returning. “See? I’m right sometimes.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” He smirks, but it’s missing the usual scorn. “Sorry,” he says. “I was behaving like a…”

“No apology necessary. As long as you’re ok.”

Damian goes silent. Dick can’t determine what he’s thinking. He’s curt with his words, but he’s not exactly someone to be completely silent, unless something is very wrong. 

“Why didn’t you say anything when I saw you earlier?” Dick asks.

Damian doesn’t speak for some time. When he does, his words have a blank tinge to them. “It wasn’t bad then.”

“What, you just hoped it would go away?” Damian glances up at him with a face that makes him regret his slightly harsh words. 

He turns away again. “Yes,” rushes out. “It usually does.”

“Usually? This isn’t the first time?”

Silence. In the lack of content, Dick removes his suit jacket, draping it over the toilet. He unfastens his cufflinks and slides them in his pocket, starting to leisurely roll up his sleeves. As he finishes getting comfortable, he can feel Damian’s eyes on him. He taps his fingers on the rim of the tub. “You know… I once got sick at one of these things.”

Silence again. Dick keeps talking. “One of my first ones. Got too excited. There was food I’ve never even heard of. My most extravagant meal growing up was when we’d go out with the rest of the performers.” Dick stops his fingers, lazily leaning onto his hand, smiling over at Damian. “Anyway… copious fancy deserts later, Bruce found me half asleep in the downstairs bathroom.” 

Damian crosses his arms above his knees and looks over at him, his cheek squished over his forearm. He follows his words with his eyes. Dick resumes his story. “He sent everyone home. Some of them were pissed, but he just told them his _ward_ was _indisposed,_ ” he sniggers.

Damian stares forward, not responding, but his gaze is fixed on him. The sound of Dick’s voice, permeating the room, makes it feel cozy. Unable to speak, he bites his lower lip. Dick does it for him. “My point is… He’d do the same for you.”

Damian shuts his eyes. Part of him thinks his father wouldn’t. Part of him is scared to ask. “I understand the importance of his affairs,” he says.

“Is that why you’ve never told anyone?” 

“Keeping up appearances is more significant than my…antipathy.”

Dick frowns, and Damian averts his eyes at the expression. “Keeping up appearances _is_ important, but… there’s something I find way more important.”

“What?” he croaks, his eyes stinging as his mind reels over what he assumes is impending acrimony.

“You, of course,” Dick says. Damian’s face sprouts up. Tears start to form again and he shakes his head in opposition. “Yes,” Dick continues, “I want you to tell me, okay? I wish you would have told me you were uncomfortable sooner.”

Damian clenches his eyes shut in an attempt to stop crying. “It’s stupid,” he says.

“Disagree,” he immediately answers. “Whenever something makes you uncomfortable, I want you to tell me. Regardless of how important you or anyone else thinks it is. Regardless of how stupid you think it is. It’s not stupid to be nervous and it’s not stupid to dislike something.”

Damian, with no other reaction, opens his eyes again, staring at Dick. Once their eyes meet, Damian shrinks, wreathing his arms tighter around himself. “Are you angry with me?” 

“For crying? No. For getting upset? No. For hating what happened tonight? Not one bit. But I am a little mad that you didn’t tell me until it got this bad.” 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, wiping at his eyes. 

“Not what I meant, kiddo.” Dick sighs. He resists the urge to wipe away the tears himself, or to hold him. Touching him would only cause him to recoil and relapse to his former condition. “I care about you a lot. You matter millions of times more to me than anyone out there.”

“Even father?” he asks, with a small voice that, for once, sounds like it belongs to someone his age.

“Even father.” Dick smiles. “I know how he can be. I know sometimes he doesn’t listen. He’s a stubborn guy.” Dick twists his fingers in his hair. “ _You_ are a stubborn guy, too. Tell me next time,” he says. “And if you don’t know how to say it, at least give me a hint.”

Damian nods. 

A knock on the door interrupts them. Both their heads shoot up, and before either of them respond, it’s pushed open to Bruce standing there. 

Dick looks back at Damian, who has curled into himself, his head lowered. He recognizes it as Damian trying to conceal himself, both physically and emotionally; a similar reaction to earlier.

“What happened?” Bruce says, from the doorway. 

“Wait outside,” Dick bites at him. Damian flinches, but Bruce doesn’t make any movement at all.  “Bruce. Outside,” Dick orders. Briefly, Bruce freezes, his eyes widening at the tone, but he follows the command, shutting the door and exiting the bathroom. 

All Dick’s attention returns to Damian, who patently won’t look at him. “Hey, what is it? Are you ok?” 

Damian’s eyes flicker up, reddened and overly damp. Horsely, he says, “I didn’t want him to know.”

Dick frowns at his words and the way they are spoken. He leans over the tub, whispering. “I’m going to talk to him. I’ll tell him to leave.” Damian feebly tilts his head. “Be right back.”

Once the door closes, Damian wishes he could disappear, too. His father, seeing him crying and undressed… his stomach twists. In varying ways, he’s completely raw. It’s bad enough Dick saw his pathetic blubbering. He doesn’t want either of them to see this side of him, or know it exists at all. 

Dick carefully shuts the door, welcomed by Bruce, barely a foot away, with wrinkles on his forehead from his clenched eyebrows. “Maybe wait for an answer before barging in?” Dick rolls his eyes. 

Bruce disregards his exasperated suggestion. “Dick, what happened? Is he hurt?”

_Only inside_ , Dick wants to say. In the company of Bruce, he finds himself angry at the man, for not realizing Damian’s state of mind; for initially putting Damian in a setting where he’s scrutinized and prodded. It was different when it was him, or Tim, or any of the rest of them. Dick doesn’t think Damian ever was around the general public before he came. 

“He’s fine. Just a little freaked out.”

“Freaked out? Why?” At his stentorian interrogation, Dick leads him away from the bathroom, not wanting Damian to overhear and make assumptions. He stops them deeper in the room, far enough for privacy.

“He’s scared. He won’t admit it, but he’s scared of them. He was scared out there.” He gestures to the door leading to the hall.

“…scared?” Bruce asks. 

Dick can see how hard he’s trying to understand. Anger slowly drifts away to something more moderate. “Being around that many people. Them touching him. He doesn’t like it.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t realize.” He pauses. Disappointed in himself, he becomes slightly defensive. “He never said anything.”

“You know it’s not that simple. Not with him.” _He’s not me._ “He isn’t going to say something like that. It’s like admitting failure.”

“He’s not failing by being uncomfortable.” 

Gloomily, Dick huffs out a bit of a laugh. “Try telling him that,” he mumbles. 

“Is he…” 

“He’s alright. He’ll be alright.” Dick can see a rebuttal coming and stops it. “Go back down to the party. I’m going to stay with him.”

Bruce nods, swiveling to leave, but stops himself before he begins to walk. “Dick… Thanks.”

“What for?”

“I know I’m… not the best at this…sort of thing.” He sighs. “Sometimes I think all I do is cause more pain for him.”

Dick shakes his head, grabbing his shoulder. “A lot of people have hurt that kid in there. You’re not one of them.” Dick removes his hand.  “I’ve already got one distressed Wayne to take care of. Think you can brood some other time?”

“He knows I’m not angry with him?” he asks, his query accompanying an expression on his face Dick knows as his strain of concern.

“I’ll make sure of it.” Dick sends a charming smile his way. “Get back out there. I’ll tell Damian how much his dad loves him.”

Bruce’s mouth twitches, something like a smile trying to make its way through. “Not what I said,” he claims, but he doesn’t need to. 

The door closes and Dick opens another one, returning to the bathroom. “Sent him away,” he mutters, eyes going to Damian’s form. 

Damian’s gone quiet again, and motionless, too. Dick makes his way over, sitting adjacent to the tub again. “He was just worried,” he tells him.

Damian remains frozen. His lips don’t move. The water in the tub is as transfixed as his body. “Why didn’t you want him to see you?” Dick asks.

“I know…” he starts, but loses his voice. A moment later he finds it, and Dick wishes he didn’t, at the sound. “He’s disappointed.”

Disliking the answer and not wanting to scare him away with his proclamations over how much everyone cares about him, Dick asks a question. “Why do you think that?”

“I messed up. He’s… He’s…” Damian’s crying again. Dick wonders if he spent Bruce and his whole conversation tormenting himself. “I’m not fit to be his son.”

_That’s not true_ , he wants to say, but he knows it won’t help. Words don’t mean much to Damian, and pledges of affection never break the surface. He’s better with actions; something tangible to sink his fingers into. He shuts down when he’s told how to feel, and when his feelings are denied with vows and promises. Dick has made the mistake once before, and it took weeks before Damian felt safe enough to share with him again. Desperate for something, he asks another question. “You really believe that?” 

Damian doesn’t do anything for a few seconds. “Yes,” he finally says. “I failed. I can’t even pretend for a few hours,” his voice breaks off into an angered sob. 

“You don’t have to,” Dick says. “You never have to go to one of these again if you don’t want.”

His breath hitches. “Father—”

Without hesitating, and with a definite timbre of his voice, Dick says, “ _I’m_ telling you you don’t have to.”  He lightly touches Damian’s face and a heated droplet meets his finger. Circumspect, he withdraws as soon as he rubs away the tear. “I love you very much. And your father loves you very much. He is not disappointed in you and neither am I.”

“I…I’m…” he attempts. 

Dick doesn’t let him. “This is not a point to be argued.” His fingers make their way to his head once more, and he brushes them through his hair.  “Did you wash your hair?” he asks.  Damian shakes his head.  “Do you want to?” This time, there is no response to his question. Dick inspects his body language and browses for the meaning. 

Quietly, he lands on something. “…do you want me to?” 

Damian does respond this time, consenting with a bow of his head. Dick thinks his clumsiness in trying to acquire what he wants is curiously adorable; as he exists somewhere between too prideful and too embarrassed to ask. He is still learning the intricacy of affection and what it's comprised of.

Dick raises himself onto his knees and grabs the two bottles in the shower. He sits back down in front of the tub, putting the containers down beside him. His fingers go into Damian’s hair, stroking his head, combing the strands with his fingers. “Turn around?” Dick asks, also instructing him. “Back to me.” 

Briefly, he removes his fingers as Damian spins around and situates himself, sitting with his legs crossed. The interminable lesion on his spine manifests between them. Dick’s eyes follow the scar tissue, desideratum for Damian to never be hurt in that way or any other; and willing to protect the person in front of him with his life, along with anything else he could sacrifice, and anything else he could give. 

He lathers his hands and gently places his fingers in Damian’s hair. Fingertips knead his head as spume forms around the locks. Damian’s eyes fall closed at the sensation, and his breathing stabilizes under the tender motion.

Extracting his hands, Dick turns the faucet and reaches into the tub to release the plug, so it doesn’t unduly fill. His hands go back to Damian’s head, and he directs him toward the stream of water, to which Damian concedes, letting himself be led. 

Washing his hair, his eyes flicker to Damian wiggling, and he looks down to see his wrists crossed over his groin, aiming to veil himself. His attention goes back to his hair, and Dick fondly twinkles, finding it slightly charming; the kid who is so valiant and forthright, only turning shy at the possibility of revealing his naked body to someone; even him. 

Dick lifts him by his nape and moves his fingers back into his hair once they’re mantled with conditioner. Dawdling, he massages his head and slowly rinses the substance out of his hair. Damian sits up and Dick reaches behind him to rotate the nozzle. 

Standing, he goes to the shelving above the toilet and grabs one of the towels in the stack, unfolding and grabbing the corners. He stretches his arms to extend the towel over the space in front of him. 

Damian follows him up and collapses into the fabric, spinning around as Dick encases him in it and places a kiss on his forehead. 

Dick grabs their clothing, reaching for his suit jacket and Damian’s pile of clothes, snatching his shoes off the floor. He lays the raiment over the chair of his desk, removing his own tie, then sitting on the bed. He looks back to Damian, dressed in sweats, rubbing the towel over his head and letting it fall to the floor as he pulls a shirt on. He lean over, grabbing and tossing it in the laundry basket. 

The bed dips as Damian lies over it, his body turned in the direction of Dick’s.  He tugs at the side of his shirt, by his waist. “Richard.”

“Hm? What’s up?”

Damian shuts his eyes and his body feels as if it deliquesces over the bed. “Please,” he mumbles, pretending his face doesn’t heat at the way his own voice sounds. “Will you…” Instead of asking, he yanks his shirt again, gesturing him to lay beside. 

Dick kicks off his shoes and positions himself on the bed next to him, cautious not to get too close. His hands lay ahead of his face on the cushion, and Damian reaches out, grabbing one and laying his palm over Dick’s. His fingers delicately move in the space around his. 

“I think… I don’t dislike it when it’s you,” Damian says, with closed eyes out of sleepiness or abash. 

Dick allows himself to tangle their hands at the confession. “I don’t dislike it when it’s you, either.”

Damian does something else surprising. His face shapes into a genuine smile, the sides of his lips slanting upwards. “Thank you. For..."  _Everything._ Damian grows somnolent, now relaxed, feeling safe in Dick’s grasp, and his next words come out with a faint slur. “You make me feel…” Half unconscious, he can’t find the correct term to describe the vast warmth in his chest, and he says something that doesn’t sound very much like him. “Very good.”

Dick shuts his eyes, too, and he cannot help the smile evincing on his face. Before he descends into a solaced slumber, he places a sleepy kiss over his hand. 


End file.
